Fear of Falling
by ecrichard
Summary: What if Moriarty's plan had played out in Reichenbach Fall? What would Sherlock have done? Starts with the rooftop scene with Moriarty/Sherlock and diverges from there.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock's hands wrapped around the lapels of Mortiary's jacket. He gripped the fabric so tight that he felt his fingernails might break. Reasoning with Moriarty was like walking through quicksand. Every time he felt he has solved the riddle, the question changed.

The weather was crisp and every few seconds a gust of chilled wind slammed into them. On the roof there was no protection from the elements.

His eyes darted from side to side. Sherlock tried to figure out his motives, his end goal, but it seemed elusive.

"I can still prove you created an entirely false identity."

Moriarty shrugged.

His heart pounded as he raced to the next goal post. There was something that would make him stop. There had to be something that would change the possession. Everyone had a price. It was just a race to find out what it was.

"Oh, just kill yourself," Moriarty said, "it's a lot less effort."

Sherlock switched on the aggression. If mind games didn't work then he would use his size to stop him. He pushed him closer to the edge of the building so nearly half his body was perpendicular to the street below.

It would be so simple to let him go and let his body fall the ground. No one would argue that it was a good man that lost his life on that roof. As he held Moriarty's body in his hands he simply couldn't do it. He had to finish out the story. He had to know how it ended.

"You're insane," he said.

"You're just getting that now?" Moriarty answered.

He pushed him even further to see if his humanity would emerge. But as he looked into Moriarty's eyes he saw no fear. There wasn't even the slightest hint of panic in his face. Just then his smile turned to sneer and his hands lifted off the side of the building. His life was entirely in Sherlock's hands. Sherlock felt his breathing shorten to small bursts as he raced to figure out what to do next.

"Okay let me give you a little incentive," Moriarty said. His voice grew to a growl as he spoke further. "Your friends will die if you don't."

"John?"

His heart sank as he looked into Moriarty's eyes to call his bluff.

"Not just John."

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Everyone."

"Lestrade?"

"Everyone," he hissed. "Three bullets. Three victims. There's no stopping them now."

"Unless—" he said with an expectant look.

Sherlock knew the rest of the sentence immediately. He had missed the answer. It had been there all along. He had walked into a trap that Moriarty had planned long before. No one knew he was here. He'd even sent John away across town. He forced his face into a neutral expression before he continued to speak. It was imperative that Moriarty not think he had gotten to him. Always be the smartest man in the room…

"I die in disgrace. Complete your story."

He nods and licks his lips.

"You're lying," Sherlock said.

Moriarty's eyes lowered. "Sherlock Holmes. Always thinking…" he taps his head and circles around his victim like a vulture. "What makes you so sure?"

Sherlock looks out to the city below. He wasn't sure, far from it. There had to be a slip-up somewhere. Even Moriarty had to have made a mistake.

"You," he said. "You can call them off. I can save them if I have you."

He walked towards Sherlock like an inquisitive professor. "What makes you think I haven't already killed them all?"

"What would be the point? If I die then there are more that corroborate your story. No reason to murder your biggest puzzle pieces."

Moriarty shook his head. "Wrong again. I thought you'd be more impressive. Very disappointing, Sherlock."

He hadn't killed them yet, Sherlock was sure of that but there was no way to tell if they were actually in danger. The longer he delayed, the more time that he bought all of them. He had outwitted Moriarty before and he could it again. It was all an intricate game of out-thinking the person in front of you long enough to gain the lead. Right now he was behind.

"You call them off…" Sherlock said as he reached into his pocket. He hoped that he could make Moriarty think he had a gun but it was a weak play.

"Sherlock, you're embarrassing yourself. Now why would I do something like that?"

He rushed towards Moriarty to attempt disarm him and fight him to the ground but he thought better of it. He needed to get a word to John.

The edge.

Sherlock turned from Moriarty and began to walk to the edge of the building. He made long steps and unbuttoned his coat, allowing it blow widely in the breeze. With the distraction of the coat he was able to take out his phone and type a message to John.

_Do not go home. Come back to hospital ASAP._

If John was here and not where the gunman would assume there was a chance that he would be safe. It gave him some control. In his way he could slowly gain the upper hand once more.

"What are you doing?" Moriarty shouted.

Sherlock didn't answer. Any way to subvert the plan was a step towards defeating Moriarty.

He heard Moriarty's footsteps behind him. Sherlock stuck his phone back in his pocket and spun back around. In one swift motion, he grabbed Moriarty's left arm and snapped it back as hard as he could. There was a pop in his shoulder and he yelped in pain.

"Get on the phone," Sherlock said. "Now."

Moriarty's face softened as his arm hung limp in Sherlock's hands. "No."

He yanked again, which sent another shot of pain through Moriarty's body. "Now."

"This is unbecoming, Sherlock. What would John think?"

He yanked again. "Shut up."

"Tsk, tsk," Moriarty said. "I hoped it wouldn't come to this. Now are you going to jump or not?"

He didn't answer.

"Breast pocket. Hand me my phone, please."

"What are you going to do?" Sherlock asked.

"You'll see," Moriarty said.

Sherlock let the arm go and it hung uselessly. With his one good arm, Moriarty dialed his phone and held it up to his ear.

"Hold on," he said to Sherlock, "let me put it on speaker."

Sherlock's heart beat fast. This was not part of the plan. Moriarty was not going to call them off.

"Stop this," Sherlock said.

Moriarty gestured his head towards the edge of the building.

"Yes?" the voice on the other end of the line said.

He immediately recognized it as Lestrade. He didn't dare say a word. There was no telling what the trigger command was.

"Detective Inspector. I'd like to report a murder."

"You should call the direct—"

Suddenly there was a shout and a rustle in the background.

Then a bang.

"Wrong number," Moriarty said with a sneer.

Sherlock felt nauseous. There was no trigger. No warning. There was a man on the inside poised to shot at will. He went to grab something but there was nothing around.

"Why?" he said as he tried to catch his breath. "He did nothing."

Moriarty smiled. "I warned you. My dear Sherlock, you can save the others."

John.

He'd told him to come to the hospital.

What had he done?

"Stop this. I'll do whatever you want, just stop this," he pleaded.

Moriarty pushed Sherlock towards the side of the building. "You know. Now go."


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade was dead. He couldn't be sure of it but he had to believe it.

Sherlock felt ill as he looked out for something, anything, to use to combat against the mad man. He fell forward and almost tripped on his own feet after Moriarty pushed him towards the edge. There had to be another way. He needed to talk to John. He needed to know if it was all true.

"This is interminable," Moriarty said as he bounded forward.

Sherlock spun around and put out his hand to stop him. "One moment."

"No more moments. Get this done."

"Why are you in such a hurry? Where is the spectacle? There's hardly anyone here."

Moriarty shook his head. "No need. Sherlock Holmes has made quick a name for himself. It won't long before they all know."

He paced the edge of the building. There wasn't much time. "How do I know that he's dead?"

"Who?"

"Lestrade."

Moriarty picked at his nail and shrugged. "Why don't you just trust me? I thought we were friends."

Sherlock held his breath. John would be here soon. He had to buy time.

"Prove it," he said. "Prove that he is dead."

Moriarty smiled. "No my dear detective. You just have to believe me."

He could hear the sirens in the distance. Moriarty knew what that meant as well as Sherlock did. It was unmistakable. There had been a crime and they both knew what had happened. His heart beat against his chest.

What had he missed? How had he let himself fall behind?

Moriarty looked up with an arched eyebrow. "Convinced?"

Sherlock bit his tongue to keep from speaking. The less he said the better.

"My men are getting quite bored," Moriarty said. "And I do have plans. Now make your way to the ground if you could."

Sherlock couldn't think about Lestrade. He couldn't think about the other two either. That was what Moriarty desperately wanted. He wanted Sherlock to be distracted and lose focus. He couldn't do either.

He moved towards Moriarty with large steps and a growl. "What if I kill you?"

Moriarty lifted his arms in surrender. "What if you did?"

"They would stand down. No orders from the commander, no further murders. Am I right?"

He had to assume that there was some sort of trigger. A text. A word. There had to be a cue. The cue could only come from the one man who knew it. It could only come from Moriarty.

There was a silence.

"Me? You think I would so reckless. Oh, stupid, stupid. I thought better of you."

He knew that he was correct.

Moriarty stood up and walked towards Sherlock. They stood in the center of the rooftop with Moriarty circling around his prey like a ravenous hunter. "Your friends will be dead, my boy. They will be gone. I will snuff them out with the snap of my finger. You can't stop me from up here."

Sherlock shook his head. "No," he said with a restrained smile. "You will be stopped."

"I don't think so, darling."

Sherlock spun to meet Moriarty's eyeline. "You will."

Moriarty didn't break eye contact as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "Mrs. Hudson would be an excellent corpse, don't you think? Pity about the carpet. I'm sure someone could clean it."

Mrs. Hudson would not let anyone into the house that she didn't know. There was no reason to fear for her safety. That is except…

Of course.

How could he have forgotten?

The plumber.

Before they left last night she'd mentioned that she'd hired a plumber to fix a pipe. The water would be temporarily turned off, she said, so best be out in the morning.

But Moriarty wouldn't have known. There was no way to anticipate such a request.

Sherlock watched as the phone raised. They stared at each other with breathless anticipation for what the other would do next.

"Last chance."

"No," Sherlock said.

"Sad, really," he said. "Early morning…might disturb the neighbors."

The bluff had been called. Lestrade could still be alive. There could be no danger.

He watched as the phone lit up and Moriarty's fingers slowly touched the numbers.

It dialed.

He could hear the ringing through the speaker.

Sherlock looked behind him for John's cab. If only he could get a message. If only he could buy more time to think.

Moriarty lifted the phone as it clicked and was answered.

"Hello?"

He turned on the speaker.

"You should say something," he said.

Sherlock looked at him with confusion. Moriarty hadn't said a word. The phone call itself did not appear to be the trigger. It must be a phrase, a code of some sort. Sherlock kept silent as the phone was jutted closer to his mouth.

"C'mon…" he whispered. "Say goodbye."

Sherlock stepped back.

Moriarty moved forward and grabbed him by the lapel. "Now," he sneered.

What was it? What needed to be said?

Moriarty pushed him away. Sherlock tripped on his foot and stumbled back.

"Hello?" Mrs. Hudson said again.

Sherlock gained his footing as Moriarty pulled the phone back and laid it against his face.

"Morning," he said. "Hope you're well."

"Who is th—?"

A bang.

Sherlock felt his legs go numb beneath him. The blood drained from his face.

No.

He couldn't.

This time Moriarty did not hang up. He turned up the volume on the phone.

There was a shout on the other end.

A scream.

A blood-curdling scream.

He struggled to stand. This could not be. He wanted to shout. He wanted to run to her.

He couldn't contain his anger.

"Stop this," he shouted.

Moriarty laughed. "Rent might rise. New owner and all."

He couldn't control himself. Sherlock ran towards his and grabbed Moriarty by the neck. He squeezed until he felt the man's bones wrestle against his fingers.

"I will kill you."

Moriarty shook his head. "No you won't."

He squeezed harder. "Yes."

"No," he said, "you won't."

Sherlock's phone vibrated in his pocket. With his hand still wrapped around Moriarty's windpipe he checked the caller ID. He knew who it was. He felt nauseous as he saw John's name on the screen.

"Is it your pet?" Moriarty said.

He wrenched Moriarty's head to the side. The man whimpered in pain for a moment before regaining his smirk.

"He's here, isn't he?"

Sherlock could do it. He could kill him right here.

But he didn't.

John was still alive.

If Moriarty was still here, there was a chance that he could save John.

There was still a chance.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock couldn't let Moriarty break him. This was it. This was what Moriarty had promised would happen. Everyone in his life was disappearing and it was all his fault. But there was no time to mourn. There was no time to be angry. He had to compete. He had to win.

He pulled his fingers in even tighter. It took every ounce of willpower in his body to not kill him there. Moriarty's face grew paler by the second and his gaze grew less focused. It wouldn't be much longer.

But he couldn't do it. He wasn't like Moriarty. Killing solved nothing. It was elimination of the problem, not the solution.

Sherlock let his hand go and Moriarty stepped back and gasped for air.

"Sherlock," he croaked, "what mercy."

He took in a sharp breath. "Undeserved."

If John had called that meant he had arrived. It wouldn't be long until Moriarty's men found him again.

"One more," Moriarty said as he massaged his bruised neck.

"And then?" Sherlock said.

Moriarty didn't answer right away. He looked with a bemused expression.

That was it. There was no Plan B. Moriarty had counted on Sherlock's sense of compassion. A man who had nothing left to lose was in no position to be told what to do. If John was shot then there was no more leverage. There was nothing left to bargain with and Moriarty knew it.

"I'll kill you myself," he said.

"No you won't," Sherlock said.

Moriarty cocked his head. "Yes I will."

"No," Sherlock said, "you won't."

Moriarty stepped back and shook his head. "John will die. You understand that."

"I do."

"I'll do it now."

Sherlock held his breath to restrain the fear that crept down his spine. This couldn't happen. This wouldn't happen. He could still save one of them.

"Do it," he said quietly.

Moriarty grabbed his phone from his pocket but this time it seemed reluctant. The flourish and show of murder had worn thin.

Sherlock dug further. This was the thread to pull. He stepped closer and closer to Moriarty. "Yes? Will you make the call or shall I?"

Moriarty looked up at Sherlock and put the phone back in his pocket.

"I knew it."

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as Moriarty's phone disappeared. "What?"

"You and I, we're alike. This whole time I assumed as much."

"Perhaps," he said, "you misjudged me."

Moriarty nodded. "Perhaps I did."

There was a strange glint to his eyes. Moriarty gazed up to the sky as he pulled something from inside his jacket. "You can't save him," he said.

"What?"

Moriarty held out the pistol he'd grabbed from his jacket. "You can't stop them."

Sherlock stepped back just as Moriarty placed the pistol in between his teeth. It took just a second for him to pull the trigger. There was a blast, a boom, and he fell to the ground. A pool of blood formed a halo around his head.

Sherlock stumbled backwards.

"No," he muttered.

He was wrong and now John was in danger.

Sherlock groped at his jacket to get his phone. There was still a chance. He had to save him.

His breath was shallow and wheezing. Sherlock struggled to turn on the phone through the adrenaline that coursed through his mind. How could he have been so off. He'd been outsmarted. It wasn't how this was supposed to end.

It rang.

And rang.

And rang.

"Answer," he said. "Please."

On the fifth ring John finally answered the phone.

"Sherlock!" he said. "Where are you?"

He could hear the rush of cars passing and the rustle of the wind grazing against the receiver. John was outside. He raced to the edge to look for him.

"I'm on the roof."

"What?"

He ran along the perimeter and looked for him.

"John, stop moving."

"Why?"

"Just stop."

He kept running. He had to find him.

On the East side he finally saw the familiar black jacket eighty feet down. He stood still in the middle of the parking lot. There were buildings on all sides of him. It wasn't safe there.

"John, do you see me?"

He stood at the edge and raised his arm. John looked up and raised his arm back.

"Yes," he said. "Why are you doing this? Why are you up there?"

"You have to move. John, please, move to your left. Hurry."

Without argument he moved so his was behind a large wall. There were still sniper points but it would by them a few moments until he could get down.

"Moriarty's dead," he said.

"What?"

Sherlock struggled to catch his breath as he looked back at the man dead on the ground behind him. "He killed himself. John you have you listen to me. You're in danger."

"I'm in…Sherlock, what's going on? You sound winded."

He looked all around for the gunman. He had to get inside Moriarty's mind. There had to be a way to outsmart them. "You need to come inside. I'll meet you in the lobby."

"What about you?" he asked.

"I'll meet you there. You have to listen to me."

Just as John began to walk towards the lobby, he saw the gunman. He was across the street, on the fourth floor. A window was propped open just a few inches the tell-tale glint of a rifle shined in the distance. It was aimed for the door. He was waiting until John was in view.

"Stop!" he shouted.

John halted.

"Do not move," he said. A few more feet and there would be a clear shot. With the wall as a barrier there was no way to see John.

"What should I do?" he whispered.

"Kneel. Get low to the ground," he said.

He knelt. The shot was even more difficult.

"What is happening?"

He looked back up at the 4th floor window.

The gunman was gone.

Sherlock's heart pound as he looked for him. The equipment would take 90 seconds to dissemble and transport to another location. If he was looking for a shot from the west then John had under a minute to get inside.

"Move," he said.

"Where?"

"Inside," he said, "hurry."

John stood and looked up towards the roof. "Okay," he said.

Just as he began to move, Sherlock heard the bang.

His instinct was to see where the noise came from.

4th floor window.

He hadn't waited long enough.

Sherlock looked back at the ground and hoped that the image would be different. He hoped that it was another shot. Another victim.

Anyone but John.

He was wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

He felt his legs go numb.

It couldn't be.

"John!" he screamed at the ground. John didn't move. He laid against the sidewalk as bystanders rushed to him.

He had to get down there.

His brain couldn't process as he ran towards the stairwell. The door slammed behind him and Sherlock rushed down the stairs taking three at a time. He felt propelled down the four flights. As He reached the ground floor, he already saw a small group of people hovered over John.

It couldn't be.

He pushed the doors open and ran towards the hoard.

"Let me through!" he shouted.

The public was too enchanted by the emergency that they didn't pay Sherlock any attention. He pushed through a pair of oblivious bystanders.

"Move!" he shouted.

They didn't.

He knocked one off his feet as he got through.

John lay on his side. A man in scrubs had his hand on John's neck while another doctor had her hands pressed against his chest. A puddle of blood had formed around them and was diluted by the falling rain.

An older woman grabbed him by the arm and attempted to restrain him. "Let them work," she said.

He felt dizzy as he barreled forward. "Stop," he said as his mind began fog.

"Sir," she chastised.

He pulled his arm away with such force that her nails scratched his skin. "He's my friend," he muttered. "Let me through."

Sherlock fell in front of John on his hands and knees. The crowd took a step back as the doctors turned John on his side.

"John," he said as he went to touch his friend.

His eyes were still open there was a hint of life left. Sherlock touched his hand and John's eyes lazily refocused. "John," he said, "I'm sorry."

"'s o…kay," John slurred as the doctors gestured over for the gurney that was fast approaching.

The doctors shouted at him to move but he couldn't. He gripped John's hand tighter and felt as it grew slacker and colder in his own. It couldn't happen, not like this. The shouts of those around him quieted to a dull roar.

John's eyes fluttered but stayed fixed on Sherlock. There wasn't pain on his face. "John…" he said. "Stay with me."

He smiled back. The color from John's face grew sallow and paler by the second.

This wasn't happening.

This couldn't be how it ended.

"Sir," the doctor said as the gurney pulled up. "We need to get him inside."

Sherlock didn't want to let go. John's hand felt cold and lifeless inside his own. He had the dreadful feeling that this would be the last chance he'd see him alive. He couldn't do it. He couldn't leave John all by himself.

The woman behind him took his forearm gentle in her hands and slowly pulled his fingers off of John's hand. "Let them work," she said softly.

She was bent down next to him with her hands still against him. The warmth of her body was in stark contrast to the icy cold of John's skin. He knew that it was over. He knew that he'd lost his friend. The woman didn't move even as the others backed away.

He couldn't move.

His knee dug into the concrete of the sidewalk and the rain fell and plastered his coat against his back. He wanted to run back to that roof and kill Moriarty all over again. He squeezed his hands into a fist and slammed them into the concrete over and over again.

The first hit did nothing to stop the pain so he did it again.

And again.

His fingers crunched against the concrete and he felt his pinkie break. It was what he deserved.

"Stop," the woman said.

He couldn't stop.

"Sherlock," she said quietly.

He tried to catch his breath but it wouldn't come. The adrenaline had shut down his system and he could little more than stay in place. It was then that Molly let her hands off his jacket and walked in front of him and knelt down face to face.

"Let go inside," she said. "I'll bandage your hand."

The tears were lodged in his throat and he was afraid the slightest movement would unleash them. He shook his head. "No," he said. "I want to stay here."

She wiped away a tear. "You need to come in."

They were all gone.

He'd lost everyone who cared about him in one day.

He was alone.

The thud of realization was overwhelming.

"I can't," he said.

She got to her feet and ran back inside the building.

Alone.

It should have been comforting. That was what he always wanted, right? Solitude. People just gum up the works and slow you down.

They'd find Moriarty. They'd ask questions. He'd have to say that he didn't even try. Sherlock Holmes let them all die because he was outsmarted. He hit the ground again and he felt his wrist crack under the pressure.

Just as he brought his wrist against his chest to calm the throbbing pain, the constant stream of rain against his back stopped.

Molly sat back on the ground next to him with a large black umbrella perched above the pair of them. She didn't say a word as she inched the umbrella until it covered his body while hers quickly got soaked.

* * *

**To be continued...**


	5. Chapter 5

It took ten minutes before he could stand up. Molly never stopped holding the umbrella even as the rain fell to a slight patter. She didn't try to talk him out of his feelings or move them inside. She stayed.

And yet he still felt alone.

Sweet Molly was there. A good woman. Kind-hearted and lovely but she was no John. No Lestrade. She could not replace any of the people who he'd lost.

As the rain stopped he felt his pulse slow and the reality come into focus.

"Molly?"

Her hair was plastered against the side of her face and shirt was clutched against her skin. Still, she smiled. "Yes?"

He started to stand up. His wrist ached and his fingers were raw. Standing up felt impossible. His body was sore and tense and each muscle resisted the reality of moving forward. Molly grabbed his uninjured arm and helped him stand.

"Ready?" she said.

He nodded.

Inside it was quiet, silent almost. Where was the rush to save John? He looked around for the doctors, the nurses, anyone who could help. Molly stepped in front and began to walk forward. He stood in the middle of the hallway and clutched his wrist.

Where was everyone?

Molly gestured for him to move forward.

Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. Where were they? He needed to see them. He needed to see what he'd done. He needed to see the mess that he had made. That was all he wanted. He wanted to apologize for being late.

For being wrong.

For letting them down.

"Come," she said.

He stood still and tried to will himself to continue to walk.

"I can't," he said.

Molly bowed her head. "Please," she said. "Just follow me."

She pushed through a set of double doors and walked straight to the stairwell.

"Where are you taking me?"

She didn't say a word. Molly began up the stairs. He'd been the hospital dozens of times. There was research on the second floor. Patients were on the first—there was no reason to climb the steps.

Immediately he grew suspicious.

Was it over?

He stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked up at Molly. She walked emotionless towards the second floor. It would be nearly empty up there. No one would know where he was if he followed her.

How could he trust her?

"Come on," she said.

He turned back towards the stairwell door. "I need to go."

Her brows furrowed. "Your hand. This will take just a moment."

"I need to see John," he said.

She shook her head. "Not yet. You first."

It wasn't over. Moriarty had planned it all. Sherlock would have to die one way or another. How clever to have it be the woman he'd trusted all these years. Of course. How could he have been so stupid?

He spun on his heels and went for the door.

"Sherlock!" she shouted. "Wait!"

They were not going to win. It wasn't going to end this way.

Her voice was muffled behind the door but Molly still shouted.

He ran out into the lobby.

He didn't know what to do. As hard as he thought, there was no answer. The question kept changing and the solution didn't exist. If Molly was part of this, then there was nowhere to hide. Everyone would be lost. He was alone and there was nowhere left to go.

Molly burst through the doors. "What are you doing?"

He genuinely didn't know.

She moved in closer. "John's not down here," she whispered.

He had to be. She was lying but why. Why lie now? Why not just kill him here. There was no one around. There was nothing left to lose.

Sherlock had no exit strategy. John was lost and there was no point in running any longer. He stepped back until he hit the wall and slid down until he reached the floor. The gravity of the last hour still hadn't set in but moments and flashes crept in and jolted his heart. He couldn't hold it back any longer.

As the tears fell down his cheeks, Molly came and sat beside him. She rubbed his shoulder.

"Come with me," she said.

He shook his head.

"It'll make you feel better."

"Nothing will," he said. "I've lost them all."

She didn't have a reply to that.

"It's my fault."

"Sherlock…"

It was hitting him all at once. All the suffering. The loneliness. The pain he'd caused. All those people lost because of him.

"I should have stopped him."

Molly took her hand off his shoulder and stood up with her arms crossed. Her tone of voice turned pointed. "Come with me."

"Why?"

"I have something to show you. Please, just come with me."

What was left to lose? He wanted to trust her. Molly had a good heart, a kind heart. He forced himself to his feet and followed behind her in shuffling steps.

They climbed the stairs in silence. She constantly peered behind her to make sure he hadn't run off. This time he stayed put—there was no longer any point in running. They reached the second floor and Molly peered out the door before stepping through.

"Let's go," she said as she ushered him up the stairs. "Hurry."

The door led into the lobby that was the hub for the research labs. He'd walked the steps so many times that the journey to her lab was instinctual. She shuffled towards the door all while cautiously looking around her as they moved forward.

He wrist throbbed as they entered her lab. The pain had begun to push through the emotional webs and was dominating his neural activity. He bit his tongue to power through the discomfort.

"Molly, what are we doing?"

He was exhausted. All he wanted to do was check on John. He needed to know what had happened. It was the not knowing that was killing him.

She pointed towards a smaller lab off to the side.

"Molly, please. I can't…"

He felt dizzy. Sherlock grabbed one of the counters for support.

Just then a door opened.

He had to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.

"John?"

There was smeared blood on his shirt and jacket and a scratch on his head but John walked through the doors of the small lab with a smile on his face. Molly looked on in glee.

"But how?" he said. His head still pounded.

"Molly. All Molly," he said.

She shrugged. "Jim talked a lot about you," she said. "He told me everything. He wanted me to help him but I said no."

John continued. "When all this began to happen with him, Molly remembered his plan for the gunmen and the blackmail. Mycroft hired bodyguards for all of us. He never told you because you'd never agree."

"Lestrade? Mrs. Hudson?"

"They're fine," John said. "They were never in any danger."

"But I saw you…" Sherlock said .

John pulled out a small bag of theatrical fake blood. "Bought this the other day. Thought it might be needed just in case. When Mycroft told me that Moriarty's plan had begun, I was ready. Molly had a few of the doctors ready to do a little acting. All an illusion to through them off."

Sherlock had to laugh. "Never do that again," he said.

John smiled. "I'll try. Can't promise."

"Can't believe I didn't notice the fake blood…" he said.

John raised an eyebrow. "Thought you might catch that."

Molly walked closer and pointed to his swollen wrist. "Let's get that taken care of. John?"

He grimaced at the injury. "How did you do that?"

_ Sentiment,_ he thought. _It'll get you every time._


End file.
